


Chased

by xpityx



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 03:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: Francis was sorry he'd given into the feeling of duty that had lead him to stay once the meeting had ended.





	Chased

**Author's Note:**

> I can't post this without acknowledging one of the greatest Fitzcro blowjob fics: [Because the sun had set](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738408) by [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato) which you should totally go read if you haven't already.
> 
> Beta'd by the excellent [walkwithursus](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus), who I think we should all hassle to write their own Terror fic, as they are awesome and should be sharing their writing skills with the fandom :P

 

Francis was sorry he'd given into the feeling of duty that had lead him to stay once the meeting had ended. He'd made two leaden attempts to start a conversation before giving up and concentrating on drinking his whisky at a socially acceptable rate.

 

Fitzjames seemed equally absorbed in the glass in his hand, throwing back his first and refilling his own glass without offering Francis a second. Francis was glad that he had topped himself up to acceptable levels of sobriety before setting out from the _Terror_ that evening, as apparently manners were in short supply. He was sufficiently annoyed at the slight—and the relative lack of whiskey—that he was trying to think of a suitable remonstration when Fitzjames spoke.

 

"I know it is not so much my company that calls you to stay beyond the end of the meeting, but rather the supplies that I am furnished with. However, if you could pretend friendship for this evening I would be most grateful." And with that, he slid the whiskey down the table so that it was back within Francis' reach.

 

"Does something trouble you?" Francis asked as he absorbed that, pouring himself a drink as he did so. He winced, realising he had confirmed Fitzjames' less than flattering interpretation of his actions.

 

Fitzjames smiled a little, and Francis could not think of a single thing he could say or do to refute the impression he had given. The simple truth of the matter was that they were not friends, and were unlikely to ever be. Francis had imagined that a man such as Fitzjames would have had neither the difficulty nor the compunction at forming friendships among the other officers, or even perhaps the men. Francis himself did not have the manner nor the cast iron social standing that would be necessary for him to overlook differences in rank in a search for companionship, but he didn't need it. He had Thomas and his own melancholia for company. They had served him well in the cold and dark before, and he hoped they would carry him to whatever end awaited them out on the ice.

 

"No Francis," James replied, an odd smile still tugging at the side of his mouth, "but I thank you for your indulgence." He saluted him with his glass and tossed it back, reaching to pour himself another and top up Francis' glass at the same time.

 

Francis licked the whisky from his lips, sour and comforting.  "Perhaps you could tell me a little of Singapore? I imagine a tale of heat and sweat would do us some good."

 

Fitzjames leaned back and began his story, though it’s shape seemed to have changed a little from the last time Francis had heard it. It was not until John came in to light another lamp that Francis realised how long they had been drinking. Fitzjames had needed more encouragement than usual to spin his tales, and Francis was almost tempted to ask again if all was well with his Second. He thought of Sir James, of the censure he would see in his face if he were to witness how badly Francis was neglecting his duty ensuring moral was kept somewhat higher than the level of the seabed.

 

"You were right," Fitzjames said once John had left the room, "you were right and I should have said so."  

 

Francis struggled for a moment to follow this branch of conversation, then further struggled for something to say once he was cognizant of it.

 

"I always," James paused to finish his drink, "I always defer to the perceived power in any room instead of to the man who is _right_. I admire you, you say what is true, no matter the cost to yourself. I am," he shook his head, "there was never a man as untrue as I."

 

There were sat close enough that Francis could see the unsteadiness of his hand as he drank, and some instinct led him to lean forward to put a hand on Fitzjames' shoulder as an attempt at comfort. He rather misjudged the distance however and ended up with his hand mostly tucked into the space between Fitzjames' jacket and the warmth of his neck.

 

"And I admire you," Francis said, leaving his hand where it was rather than draw attention to the impropriety of it. He tried for a moment to come up with a specific example of his regard. He was jealous of Fitzjames' ease of character at least, and under the weight of whiskey and temporary camaraderie it felt like admiration.

 

Fitzjames apparently didn't need concrete examples though, looking across at him with bright eyes, "you do?"

 

"Of course," Francis replied, somewhat lost in the feeling of having his opinion so well thought of to pay much attention to anything else, which was most likely why he was so befuddled as to how Fitzjames promptly went from sitting across from him to kneeling between his legs.

 

"James?" Francis asked, not quite willing to believe the turn of events.

 

Fitzjames didn't reply, instead turning his face into the high seem on Francis' trousers, the touch as sensual as it was unexpected. He then put a hand on the front of Francis' trousers fumbling with the buttons. Francis might have put a stop to it right there, aware of a power imbalance that hadn't before been clear to him: Fitzjames somehow thought well of him, perhaps highly even, but he then said _Francis_ with such a tone of wanting that all thoughts of stopping him evaporated.

 

The most important thing to do when one's Second was about to fellate one's cock was to put one's drink down, which Francis promptly did, but that simply left him with two hands he didn't know what to do with rather than just the one. He experimentally put one on the back of Fitzjames' head, where his hair was thick and soft. Fitzjames moaned and pushed back into the contact, making Francis hardern further. He put his other hand into his hair, joining it with the first as a cradle to the back of Fitzjames' head.

 

He tilted back to look up at the ceiling, but that did nothing to lessen the noises that Fitzjames was making, so he curled forward to look down at him instead. His hair had spilt forward, blocking most of the view, but the angle was such that he could see the steady rhythm of his arm as Fitzjames simultaneously worked his own prick. Francis had time for half a thought about the multitasking skill that must take before he was spilling over the edge, able to give Fitzjames only the briefest of warnings.

 

Fitzjames only made a further obscene noise as he pulled off Francis, working his own prick frantically before reaching his peak. They stayed frozen in that tableau for a moment, but the noise of others beyond the wardroom roused Francis to gingerly tuck himself away. Fitzjames seemed disinclined to do the same, so Francis awkwardly passed him his own less than clean handkerchief. He made an attempt at cleaning himself up and rearranging his clothes but otherwise stayed sprawled on the floor. In the end, Francis pushed his chair back to stand and helped Fitzjames to his feet, where he stood blinking at Francis.

 

"I think I may have overindulged," he said, slurring only a little.

 

Which was an understatement of some proportion, but Francis was feeling rather amiable towards him and forbore from pointing it out. Instead he half carried him to his berth and deposited him in a sitting position so he could help him with his boots. By this time Fitzjames was listing alarmingly, as if they were still born up by waves instead of crushing ice.

 

"Thank you, Francis," he said as Francis helped him to lie down, making sure he was adequately covered by blankets.

 

Francis made no reply, the whiskey receding just enough to let him know he had made a serious misstep. It was not a pleasant feeling, and one he meant to drown in a nightcap, only to discover they had finished the bottle. He was at least aware that walking back to his own bunk was not an option, so he sat in the least uncomfortable chair instead to wait for either sleep or morning to claim him.

 

-

 

In the week following their encounter, to say that Francis' social skills were more than usually stilted was an observation that perhaps only Thomas knew him well enough to make. As it was his friend was keeping any opinions to himself, no doubt saving them for one of his rare attempts to engage Francis in a conversation about his drinking habits.

 

There had been the usual meetings, even occasions when just he and Fitzjames had discussed the mundane business of keeping some two hundred men alive, but not a suggestion of what had taken place between them. Francis, upon awakening cold and uncomfortable on the _Erebus_ , had reviewed his memories of the night before and had come to the conclusion that, under the circumstances, retreating promptly to the Terror was the kindest thing he could do for Fitzjames.

 

Now though Fitzjames seemed to be lingering, saying his goodnights to the other officers but remaining at the head of the table, one fine-boned hand spread on a yet unfolded map. Once the others had left the room he sat heavily back in his chair, and Francis could feel his eyes on him as he busied himself with tidying the last of the paperwork and returning the maps to their shelves. It was all work that Jopson would usually do, but Francis could still feel the vulnerable curve of Fitzjames' head in his hands, so any distraction was welcome.

 

Finally there was nothing to do but sit, which he did, fiddling with cuffs until he realised he was doing it and stopped. He looked up to Fitzjames who, with slow deliberate movements, reached into his bag and took out a three-quarters full bottle of whiskey and placed it on the table to the side of him.

 

"I thought perhaps you would indulge me once again," he said, without looking up from where his hand was still wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

 

Francis nodded then realising Fitzjames' had most likely not caught the gesture, stood to get two glasses instead. He tried to work out if he was more ashamed that the call of the whiskey could quell any and all of his misgivings or that the thought of his Second on his knees once again held appeal. He was damned either way, so there wasn't much point dwelling on it. Fitzjames seemed to have used up all his impressive powers of speech on his initial offer, so Francis made an effort to be at least somewhat entertaining as they drank. He would normally have never even thought to mention his childhood to another, but having seen such frailty of Fitzjames he felt he should offer some weakness of his own, so he told him about two of his brothers and some of the schoolboy pranks they had managed as boys. Fitzjames didn't laugh, but some of the tension seemed to go out of him, enough that Francis thought that maybe he had misread the situation, and that Fitzjames was merely there to rewrite their last drunken interaction with something more befitting to the gentleman they both claimed to be.

 

Then Fitzjames pushed his glass onto the table and went to his knees.

 

Francis didn't bother with decorum, pushing his hands into Fitzjames' hair as soon as he was close enough and slouching lower in his chair, legs splayed wide and accommodating. Fitzjames went to work, using his hand and mouth until Francis was at a stand. He'd been too drunk the last time to properly appreciate the heat of Fitzjames' mouth, or the soft noises he made as he sucked. This time he was at just the right level of sobriety to give due attention to Fitzjames' skills, while still with enough whisky in him to not be worrying about any possible consequences.

 

"James," he said, "I'm close."

 

He was rather proud of keeping the necessary wits to give a little more warning this time, but Fitzjames seemed to take that as encouragement to increase his enthusiasm for his task. Francis bit his lip, managing to keep his moan between his teeth as he let go. After a moment, Fitzjames pulled off, though his movements indicated he still sought an end to his pleasure. Francis instinctually reached forward and wiped some of his tallow from Fitzjames' face, his thumb lingering on his lower lip, which was softer than it had any right to be. Francis, shocked at his own presumption, looked up and caught Fitzjames’ gaze just as he reached his peak, turning his face into Francis' hand as he did so.

 

Francis dared not move, hooked on the barb of vulnerability in Fitzjames' eyes as he visibly pieced himself back into James Fitzjames, Captain of the _Erebus_ and Francis' Second. Francis wasn't sure he wanted to see that vain man reappear so he pushed his chair back so he could lower himself to the floor opposite Fitzjames, opposite James. He took out his handkerchief and handed it to James, who looked it for a moment before using it to wipe up the worst of the mess. Francis then took it off him and used a clean edge to wipe the sharp curve of a cheekbone, where evidence of Francis' pleasure was visible. He stood, and put out a hand to James, who took it without hesitation. They stood opposite each other, hands still linked. Francis was aware he needed to offer something but was unsure as to what.

 

"You can have the bed," he said, his voice only a little rough, "it's too late to be walking back to the _Erebus_."

 

It must have been the wrong thing to say, as James only nodded and took back his hand, walking behind Francis into the privacy of the smaller room. Francis stared blankly at the wall unsure what he had been searching for, what right words there were, if any, to unlock the mysteries of James Fitzjames. He remembered proposing to Sophia for the second time, sure that if he could only overcome his own inadequacies, if he could only express the twined solitude and longing that existed in his own mind then she would have said yes. If only he had the words.

 

He tidied up the room a little, taking a long look at the last measure of whisky in the bottle before putting it back into James' bag. Finally he extinguished the lights and went to the bunk room, knocking softly on the door before stepping inside. The moonlight from the windows behind him cast a circle in which he stood, but James was in shadow.

 

Francis moved into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. He pulled off his boots and sweater, his movements heavy with cold and apprehension. Once his eyes were used to the dark he could see that James was curled away from him, his hair fanned behind him on the pillow.

  
Francis took up one side of the blanket and folded himself into the scant space, finding a home for his arm only by tucking it around James. With his chest flush against his back they lay together, breathing in the dark. For once Francis could not hear the thud of boots or the low murmur of voices passing outside the great cabin. In fact there was no sound except for the creaking of the pack, as inch by inch it pulled the _Terror_ into the ice.

 

 

“Among the different names for polar ice, the name I like best is ‘pack.’

It reminds of dogs and wolves. Things that hunt.

To be chased by ice, and torn apart.”                

 _Red Clocks_ \- Leni Zumas

**Author's Note:**

> PS. You can find me on [Tumblr](http://xpityx.tumblr.com/), and I'll also be writing for [Captain & Commander](https://fitzier-zine.tumblr.com/), a fitzier zine that comes out later this year ^^


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